


The Pleasure of Sorcery and Sexuality

by MoonyGolightly



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonyGolightly/pseuds/MoonyGolightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a Dreamwidth kinkmeme prompt (http://jsmn-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1273.html?thread=46841#cmt46841), in which Norrell gets his hands on some very interesting books and needs a subject to test the spells on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“A spell to allow a man to see for ten miles… silver basin… dried foxglove flower… a man of pure vision, with no cloud to his eye… Childermass!”

“Sir?”

Mr Norrell gives a start; having been absorbed in his books for - he checks the clock - several hours, he hadn’t even noticed when Childermass entered the library five minutes ago. He swallows his annoyance at having shouted for a man standing only a few feet away and gives Childermass a nod. “Good, good, you’re here already. Fetch me the dried foxgloves and, er - “ he consults the book, “a jug of boiled water.”

Childermass inclines his head and leaves as quietly as he came in - had Norrell noticed his arrival in the first place. “Make sure the water is hot!” Norrell shouts after him, then bustles around the library, clearing a space at his own table and fetching the silver basin.

A quarter of an hour later, Childermass re-enters the library with a small box and the requisite water, which is still hot enough to steam. Norrell takes the items from him, too absorbed in what the book says to thank Childermass, who turns to go. “No, no!” exclaims Norrell. “I need you here.”

Childermass’s eyebrows twitch slightly upwards. “For what purpose, sir?”

Norrell looks up from positioning the silver basin on his table and beams at Childermass. “I’m going to need your help with this spell. Sit, sit down at the table, please. In front of the basin.” He gestures towards the table. Childermass breathes out heavily through his nose, but sits down behind the table and the basin. Norrell takes the jug and pours the hot water into the basin until it’s half-full, then takes one dried foxglove flower and shreds it carefully into the bowl, keeping one eye on the book as he recites a few sentences of Latin. “Now,” he says to Childermass, “lower your head over the basin. It is most important that you keep your eyes open.”

“Why, sir?” Childermass growls; as loyal as he is to his master, he’s hardly about to subject himself to magical experimentation without some information.

It’s Norrell’s turn to sigh. “This spell should, I believe, improve your eyesight beyond normal human range. Do not worry, it is quite safe. The - person - who annotated this book before it fell into my hands has noted that if casted wrongly the spell will merely give the subject a slight head cold, nothing more severe than that.” The way that Norrell says ‘annotated’ suggests that the book’s previous owner deserved a punishment of greater severity.

Childermass smiles wryly. If Norrell can get this done with quickly, he should still have time to ride into York for his evening off and to see the young bit he met a fortnight previously. “Very well, sir,” he says, and lowers his head. The steam is hot against his eyes, but not too hot to stand, and he can hear Mr Norrell reciting more Latin. A few more sentences and Childermass is aware of the bottom of the basin becoming increasingly blurry - as he stares, he is sure that he can begin to see the grain of the wooden table.

“Up you come, Childermass. To the window, that’s it.” Childermass finds it slightly difficult to navigate himself to the window and he feels Norrell’s hand on his elbow guiding him. His vision is like it was two weeks ago, when he and his new friend had drunk far too much, stumbled along the York streets and ended up enjoying each other behind a coffee house.

“Is the spell supposed to have an effect of drunkenness, sir?” Childermass asks. To his surprise, it comes out entirely coherently. Usually this level of apparent drunkenness causes his vocabulary to reduce to ‘pretty’, ‘beer’ and ‘mouth’; the last one had proved very useful last time.

Norrell flicks through the book’s pages. “Not that I can tell. Do you feel unwell?”

Childermass shakes his head, carefully. “No, sir.”

Norrell nods approvingly. “Excellent. Now, if you would look out of this window, across the countryside, tell me: what do you see?”

Childermass looks. His eyes focus on the fields surrounding Hurtfew, but then the fields melt away and he sees the York road; he seems to follow it, at a speed no horse could match, until the sky begins to fill with the spires of the cathedral, as well as shops, taverns, houses and people. John Childermass realises he is looking at York itself, in clear, perfect focus. It is beautiful. “Sir - “ he begins, awestruck.

“Yes?” says Norrell.

Childermass stops. He’s seen the tavern he was going to meet his friend at and, without knowing how to control this magic, sees the nearest wall of the tavern dissolve. The magic seems to know what he’s looking for, because now he can see tousled brown hair and that bewitching mouth. He can see another person, sitting close, a roaming hand disguised by the beer-stained table which, of course, Childermass can see through as well. He can see how the evening will progress and end, without needing magic to divine it, and shuts his eyes against the sight. When he reopens them, he watches a buzzard hovering in the sky and observes how its feathers gleam in the late afternoon sunlight.

“Well?” Norrell presses, his tone impatient. “What did you see? Did it work?”

Childermass nods, his eyes still on the buzzard. “I saw as far as York, sir.”

Norrell puts down the book and claps his hands. “Excellent! Now, Childermass, I need to observe you until the magic ceases. I hope you do not have any plans for your evening - you will have to take your free time tomorrow instead.”  
Childermass shakes his head. “No plans, sir,” he says.

“Good, good.” Norrell settles himself with pen and paper at his table. “Now, if you would be so kind as to look out of the south-facing window and tell me what you see there. I will of course have to make adjustments for the difference in distance between my own walls, but I should hope that, broadly speaking, twenty feet will not make much difference. We shall measure the distance you can see every half hour until it is returned to normal, then I will be able to calculate the decay of the spell over time, taking into account the weather reports for today, your possible level of tiredness....” he trails off and begins drawing up a table for his notes.

Childermass stares out of the south-facing window, towards the river, and is soon so bored that he does, at least, manage to forget the evening he had planned.

***

“Childermass!” Mr Norrell’s piercing yell echoes throughout the halls, causing one of the housemaids, leaving Mr Norrell’s bedroom, to fumble the brush she’s just used to clean out the grate. It clatters down the stairs, leaving patches of soot where it bounces, and comes to land at Childermass’s feet. The maid, new to the household, attempts to curtsey and pick up the brush as soon as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, and in doing so manages to also drop the small pan and pail of ashes. Childermass helps her pick them up - he’s used to Norrell’s yelling for him and Norrell probably only wants Childermass to help him get another book down. He nods to the maid and she blushes, curtsies properly this time and trots away towards the kitchens. Childermass can hear her giggling with another maid as he strides away towards the library and Mr Norrell’s shouts.

When Childermass enters the library, Norrell does indeed look like he’s trying to get another book down. “Sir, if you would have but a moment’s patience, I could go up the ladder for you and - “

“It is not a book I’m after!” replies Norrell, irritably. He gestures at Childermass, then wobbles slightly on the ladder and thinks better of taking his hands off it. “Go into the centre of the library, by that table, just in that patch of shadow. There!”

Childermass obliges, but does so with a slowness to his step that, he can tell, nearly sends Norrell into apoplexy. “Sir, what is this about?” He eyes the books on the table: _Ye Midsumer Enterprises of Dweomercraft_ and _Porlthorpe’s Solar Calendar_ , as well as Norrell’s scribbled notes about _library 2 paces left of south wall and do not allow to leave room - water pail?_ “Sir?”

Norrell is still up the ladder, balancing paper, pen and sextant, which he raises to his eye every few moments to check something outside. “I need your assistance again, Childermass.”

Childermass’s lip curls. It’s been several weeks since the first time, but after his vision had returned to normal (taking seven hours, thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds) he had told - while appearing merely to ask - Mr Norrell that he would prefer not to be experimented upon again. “Sir, I said to you last month that while I encourage your trying new spells -”

“It’s only a short one, Childermass,” Norrell chides him, “and the sun won’t be at this same height in the sky for another year! Ah -!” Through the sextant, he has seen something of significance and immediately starts reciting what sounds to Childermass like a verse of old poetry:

_Whan that Juyng sunne hath peerced schadowe,_  
And shinen hoote onne tendre croppes,  
Thanne leten forth dauncers of Faerie gold,  
To join in merie daunce and hoppe 

As Norrell recites, Childermass feels a warmth at his feet. Looking down, he realises it’s sunlight and, as the clock in the library chimes for midday, the sunlight rapidly washes up his body until he is bathed in it. Blinking in the bright light, he can hardly see Norrell, but he can hear his gleeful cry and, as his eyes adjust, he can see small, shining figures apparently dancing in the sunbeams. Childermass finds himself surrounded by them and cannot help but watch avidly as one after another they bow to him and beckon to join in the dance.

Childermass is not normally a dancer, preferring to sit and watch and eventually pick out someone to compliment and offer a drink to, but he begins to forget where he is, forget the surroundings of the library and Hurtfew and Mr Norrell up on the ladder, and his feet begin to itch for want of joining in the dance. After all, what could be the harm in joining these splendid little creatures, who speak to him with tinkling voices and hold out hands made of flame?

As soon as he reaches out to one figure (even though she is tiny, he can see her eyes perfectly as they blaze into his), darkness suddenly falls upon him, along with a suffocating weight and, as if to make sure he is sufficiently woken up, he feels cold water seeping through what he now realises is a thick blanket. Blinking the dust and water out of his eyes, he fights his way out of the tangled blanket and sees Mr Norrell standing in front of him, looking concerned.

“What in the name of the Raven King just happened?” Childermass demands, then, remembering clearly where he is, clears his throat. “I apologise, sir. What was that?”

Norrell has the decency to look a little embarrassed, considering he’s just thrown a large blanket over Childermass and, judging by the empty vase in his hand, is also to blame for the cold water. “It was an incantation to bring forth images of spirits of the midsummer sun,” he explains, setting the vase down on the floor and helping Childermass to rid himself of the sodden blanket. “As I feared, it worked a little too well - it was not images that appeared, but the spirits themselves. I was concerned they would do you harm - I must of course note this down, as I had no evidence other than my own feeling and the unusually rapturous look upon your face as you watched them. With that he sinks into what Childermass recognises as a mood that will be upon Norrell until the evening, muttering to himself about the impossibility of counting the spirits when they refused to stay still and how the exact calculation of how soon after midday the midsummer sun began to manifest the creatures. Childermass has the beginnings of a headache and, for the rest of the day, avoids direct sunlight.

***

The third time Norrell asks Childermass to be a subject for his experimentation, Childermass accepts on the basis that, after his frantic writing-up of the sunlight spirits, Norrell had given him a holiday of two days, to be taken whenever Childermass liked (provided he told Norrell at least a month in advance). It wasn’t exactly an apology, but so far Childermass’s only injuries have been to his pride and his shirt, which hadn’t taken kindly to being doused with vase-water. So, when Norrell asks him to hold a book in front of the flag of Spain and read from it, Childermass accepts. The only downside this time is that the spell lasts somewhat longer than Norrell had anticipated. For nine days, the housemaid goes bright pink when Childermass speaks to her, in addition to not understanding a word he’s said.

Childermass does, however, find the temporary change in language somewhat useful when buying several continental spellbooks.

***

Norrell is a little more careful with his fourth attempt, and after several months finds a spell to prevent holly leaves pricking Childermass as he brings several boughs in to hang above the fire. The spell works, but Childermass suddenly realises he’s been bored by this spell, and so volunteers for the next one before Norrell has to ask.

***

Childermass has to constantly wear his hat for a month; Norrell buys him a new coat.

***

Childermass is making an attempt to clear away some of the debris of Norrell’s library when he spots several new books on a corner table, still tied together. He remembers making an order for Norrell, as well as taking its delivery, and lifts the books up to get a closer look at the titles. The books, although old, are in excellent condition, covered in supple, soft leather and filled with what must be paper of excellent quality, judging by their weight for just four books. Childermass turns the books round in order to read their titles. “Put them down,” says Norrell, not looking up from his work.

“Why haven’t you opened them, sir?” asks Childermass.

“That bookseller sent me the wrong ones. They should be the Spanish spellbooks you ordered for me last year, but these are not those books, although they appear to have a somewhat - _continental_ \- flavour to them.” Norrell says it with some distaste. “It is old magic that I see very little point to and would certainly not wish to associate myself with.”

Childermass is reading the titles along the spines of the books. _A Concise History of the Application of Magick to the Human Tenderness_ , _Intoxicating Incantations_ , _The Pleasure of Sorcery and_ -

“I told you to put them down,” says Norrell sharply, and Childermass knows when he’s pushing too far.

He sets the books down, but leaves them in a more prominent position, within Norrell’s eyeline.

“Seems a shame to buy books and not read them,” he says carefully, and leaves the library before Norrell can hurl another retort at him.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr Norrell ignores the books all afternoon, despite them being within his line of sight. The smell of the leather, warmed in the sunlight, threatens to tempt him, but after various experimental spells the library is in some disarray and a jar of dried violets is still standing on the table. He fumbles for the jar, opens it and inhales deeply. The violets, used in a spell that made Childermass talk in poetic verse for a whole morning, mask the scent of the leather, but not so long that Norrell doesn’t have to keep sticking his nose into the jar the entire afternoon. He could, of course, move the books, but that would distract him further from his meticulous notes on the lunar cycle and, more importantly, Childermass would notice they were not where he had placed them.   
  
_Irritating!_ thinks Norrell, taking such a large inhalation of violets that he erupts into a fit of explosive sneezing.  
  
Around five o’clock, the setting sun spreads molten gold over the floor of the library. Norrell, caught up in tide calculations and their relation to when it is best to perform marine magic, doesn’t see the long shadows on the floor. He does, however, catch a glint of sunlight, which is shining directly into his face. Sitting back into shadow, he can see that the topmost book in the pile is gold-edged, which, in the sunlight, makes the book look like a block of gold resting on top of the other _blasted_ books. Norrell imagines what it might be like to turn the pages of such a beautifully-crafted book, then takes his cap off his head and drapes it over the offending pile, to avoid temptation. Disgusting, really, how these old magicians used such magpie-minded tricks to draw in a self-respecting magician to the practice of depravity. He glares at the pile, then returns to tides and the exact depth one is required to immerse oneself in for spells cast upon the sea to be effective.  
  
At dinner, Norrell hardly eats anything. He had snatched his cap off the books and hurriedly replaced it on his head as soon as there was a knock at the library door, but he thinks Childermass may know what pains he took to avoid distraction. He’s still thinking about the books as he pushes his spoon around a bowl of soup. Its usually-appetising smell only makes him long for the smell of the fine leather; he wonders what the pages might smell like.  
  
“All right, sir?”  
  
Norrell blinks, then nods. “I was thinking about ways of affecting the tides,” he lies, trying to make it look like he’s imagining the soup to be some tiny sea. He glances at Childermass, who seems to be smirking. Or perhaps that’s just the way that Childermass always looks, but Norrell is uncertain and tired and, despite doing his best, still distracted by those books, particularly the gold one. “I am afraid I have no appetite,” he states, then stands up and almost trots back to the library. “I must - make some more notes!” he calls over his shoulder in response to Childermass’s concerned ‘Sir?’  
  
Back in the library, Norrell stands by the door and stares at the books. He will send them back, he will. Only -   
  
If one is to be a _respectable_ magician, in order to make English magic respectable, perhaps he ought to see what brought it into disrepute. The books are a work of art in themselves, surely it would not hurt to look through them - to appreciate their making before sending them back? To appreciate them for their own sake. To absolutely _not_ , he reminds himself as he locks the door, read any of the spells or even their descriptions.  
  
Well, perhaps the descriptions, in order that he will know what spells are contained within such books. He might even make a few notes, to see how many spells are for couples, how many for - he swallows as he sits down at the table - individuals.  
  
The string around the books falls open easily; the library seems to sigh with relief as the books are released from their tight binding, although Norrell knows it is merely one of the many drafts in the place. The gold-edged book is the first one of the pile and therefore, of course, the first one that he picks up and opens. He strokes his fingers down the slightly yellowed paper: thick, smooth and with a smell that is almost intoxicating. Norrell checks that the curtains are closed before lowering his head to the book and sniffing deeply. No sneezing fit this time; only a faint dizziness, as if he has had too much wine with dinner, and the smell of old paper and a faint, spicy perfume. He swallows again and turns a page. There is no list of the book’s contents; rather, it goes straight into the first spell and Norrell has already read half of the method for ‘restoring vigour to the older male tenderness’ before he realises. He flushes and pushes the book away from him, embarrassed and annoyed.  
  
The book lies on the desk, its gilded edges shining in the light from the lamp Norrell had brough in with him, and after a few moments he cannot help but reach out and take hold of the book again.  
  
This time he is prepared; he turns the pages, caressing each one in turn and occasionally taking great sniffs from the book. As the book progresses, both the spells and their accompanying illustrations become more - _continental_. Norrell reasons with himself that he should be taking notes, and eventually has a small chart detailing types of spells and the illustrations that accompany them, although he has to pause several times before continuing. The image of the two young gentleman with two young ladies in what appears to be a moonlight-drenched lake, for example, leaves him wishing for a cup of tea and perhaps some more tide-calculations.  
  
Time passes and the clock is striking midnight when Norrell comes to a spell ‘for caressing the body from a distance’. His head is thick with tiredness and the book’s smell and he is aware of the speed of his own breathing. Out of habit, he begins to mutter the first of several of the verses to create the spell, forgetting what he is reading just long enough for there to be a gentle tingling around his thighs. The sensation is, he finds, so pleasurable that the hand holding his pen relaxes and the pen drops to the table, leaving a splatter of ink upon his notes. His already fast breathing quickens and, as he reads another verse, the tingling becomes warmer and stronger, spreading upwards until he gasps.   
  
Norrell knows that he ought to stop - clearly, this spell is intended to bewitch its reader and create all sort of havoc and devilry - but instead he spreads his legs and reads another verse. When the pleasure becomes even more intense, with sparks of warmth at his neck and chest, he cannot help but reason that the spell may be but a diversion, a small piece of fun within the otherwise lewd and unsavoury book - yes, yes, that must be it: a single diversion to allow the less respectable English magician to -   
  
“OH!” Norrell loses his train of logical thought as what feels like warm, strong fingers wrap themselves around his cock. He looks down dazedly and sees nothing but the outline of his own cock, straining against the placket of his breeches. His hands shake as he undoes buttons and draws out his cock, then sits back, gasping, as what feels like a warm, wet mouth descends on him. He fumbles for his pen and notepaper, wanting to write down the exact sensations, but the mouth, or sensation of a mouth, is too much for him and he moans loudly, one hand gripping the edge of the table as he comes with a sense of abandon he’s not felt in years.  
  
Breathing heavily, Norrell needs several minutes before he can compose himself and wipe his seed from the side of the table with a handkerchief. He closes the book carefully, too tired to even look at the other two verses of the spell and shuffles the pages of his notes together. A shame, really, that he hadn’t been able to continue to make notes during the experiment, but he certainly won’t replicate it. Now that he’s calmed down somewhat, Norrell realises what danger he might have put himself into and vows to absolutely not meddle with any more of this ‘pleasurable magic’.  
The fact that two verses remained, however, follows him from the library, up the stairs and into his bed, where he lies awake, staring up into the darkness until his eyes seem to itch. If the verses he did manage to recite undid him so completely, it would be unlikely that he could even be capable of finishing the spell before he had, as it were, finished.  
  
Norrell turns onto his side, huffing as he tries to get comfortable. What he needs, of course, is a subject to perform the spell on, so that he can observe and take notes of the spell’s effects. He already has a subject for experiments, has done for almost a year, but ten-mile eyesight and fluency in Spanish are far distant from this sort of magic. Childermass, despite his interest in furthering Norrell’s prowess as a magician, would never agree to it - and what sort of use can such magic have, in this modern age? The very thought of practicing such a spell on Childermass is abhorrent and on anyone else - well, he would not trust anyone else. Childermass has already submitted himself to a great deal and Norrell cannot, will not ask him to go through such a personal experience in the name of magical education, never mind two small verses which might have an even greater effect upon the subject.  
  
To wield such power and to use such a beautiful book with it… that would make him feel like a great magician.  
  
Norrell pulls a pillow over his head and resolves send those d----d books back in the morning.


End file.
